Chapter 39
Maximo
“That proves nothing,” Don Rizzo says from across the table.
“Like you said, I have two sons who could have been the ones to attack your yacht, except for the fact that they were home for lunch that day. What evidence do you have against Lazaro or Julius? Nothing. No more than you have against my boys.”
Dons Valente and Casella both nod.
I lean forward, frustrated. “Look, we all suspect a rat among us. We need to get to the bottom of this. Which means action, not sitting around waiting for these bastards to strike again, hoping this time they’ll leave us a clue.”
I don’t bring up the fact that Don Rizzo’s wife has been using mine to spy on me. Although, honestly, I’m not sure he even knows about that. Portia Rizzo is a force of her own. I still can’t believe that she’d do that to me.
“Come back when you have actual evidence,” Don Valente says. “Anything. We need more than a hunch to upset the balance.”
Don Casella swallows down his wine. “I wish to act as well, Pontrelli, they shot Enzo. But if we start going after those closest to us without cause, it’s a slippery slope to infighting.
Everyone begins blaming everybody else. We’ve seen it before.
It can not happen again. Not on our watch.
Bring proof and we will back you in questioning Lazaro and Julius.
Until then.” He spreads his hands. “We can’t help you. ”
Rising, I say, “Thank you for your time.”
Simmering in my frustration, I get the hell out of the restaurant. Vincent opens the car door. I’m too lost in thought to pay much attention to the drive home.
The plan I made with Lazaro and Julius is totally fucked. If either of them are the enemy, then I can hardly trap them with a plan we all laid out together, can I? I have to test their loyalty. Individually. But first, I need help from the outside.
Scrolling through my contacts list, I find the one I need. The only man who can help me—if he will do it. That’s a big if.
I press the call button.
“What do you want?” Blake Baron’s annoyed voice answers my call.
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I sit back in my seat, trying to stay unruffled. “It’s Maximo Pontrelli.”
“I know who the fuck it is. What do you want? Don’t waste my damn time, Pontrelli. My wife’s still upset with you for lying to all of us and forcing her cousin into marriage.”
I grind my teeth, lowering my voice, “I’m not calling about family business, I need a favor from the Black Baron. I’ve heard he can get any information, anything at all. Can you help me or not?”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Depends,” he drawls. “The only currency the Black Baron accepts is favors.”
Now he’s talking about himself in third person. I roll my eyes. Who the fuck does he think he is? Though I’ve heard enough rumors about the man to approach him with caution, I wonder if even half of them are true.
“I can agree to a favor as long as you tell me what it is,” I state.
He tsks. “I only accept open-ended favors. Don’t worry, it will be something within your skill set and means to fulfill. When the time comes.”
I hesitate. Under any other circumstances, I’d never give someone a favor— carte blanche. But this is Blake, the Black Baron, and the only man who can possibly get me what I need. Beggars can’t be choosers and all of that.
“Deal.” Why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the devil?
I can practically hear his triumphant grin as he says, “What can I do for you, Pontrelli?”
I swallow my pride. “Someone is trying to kill me and I need to know who it is. Can you tell me?”
“Do I look like I own a fucking crystal ball?”
“No,” I respond, my patience slipping. “But you have your… sources. I need you to look into it.”
“The man you need for this job is Niall Bane. I’ll text you his number.” The call ends.
Motherfucker. I suppose he still thinks I owe him a favor even though he’s passing this off to someone else. I groan.
My phone pings with his text message. It’s just a shared contact, no note or anything. With a sigh, I tap the number, hoping this call will be more fruitful than the previous one.
It rings three times before a masculine voice answers, “Bane Security.”
“Hello. Blake Baron gave me your number and—” The line goes dead.
What the fuck is wrong with these people? If I ran my businesses like this, I wouldn’t have any customers.
My phone rings. The screen shows an unknown caller. With a sigh, I answer, “Hello?”
“This is a secure line. State your business,” Niall Bane barks. At least I assume it’s him, as he sounds like the guy who just hung up on me.
“As I was saying,” I slowly growl. “Blake Baron gave me your number. I asked him to look into something for me and he referred me to you. But I don’t know who the fuck you are or how you can help me.” My annoyed tone doesn’t seem to offend him one bit.
“You need information. Intel of some sort. Tell me what it is.”
“Hold on. Who are you exactly?”
He heaves a sigh, as if I’m wasting his precious time.
“I’m the man who doesn’t do this type of work anymore, and yet Baron keeps dragging me back into it.
The only reason we’re talking right now is because he called in a favor.
Which means I have to help you, don’t mistake that for wanting to help you. ”
He did? I’m surprised Blake would do such a thing for me—I guess I really do owe him one now.
The guy continues, “I’m Niall Bane, owner of Bane Security. This call, and any future correspondence, never happened. And we don’t know each other. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Pontrelli?”
I’m hesitant to trust this stranger, but Blake’s left me no other choice. It’s not like I have a lot of options either. The clock’s ticking and I need answers before those fuckers strike again. Before someone actually gets seriously hurt.
“Someone’s trying to take me out. The last attempt was yesterday while I was on my yacht.” I give him the details, everything I remember, and answer his numerous questions. He’s all business and no bullshit, which I appreciate.
“And who within your… organization do you suspect?” he asks.
“Unfortunately, several people who are closest to me. To start with, Lazaro Achilli, Julius Fabini, and… Portia Rizzo.” Though that last name doesn’t sit well with me.
She wouldn’t betray me, would she? I can’t bring myself to believe it.
Though she did put Elena up to it, so I just don’t know what to think.
Or what the hell is going on there. Better safe than sorry.
“I’ll be in touch if I need anything else from you, or when I have information.” He hangs up.
I set down my phone and pour myself a cognac from the car’s minibar. I just named my potential enemies aloud: My underboss, my consigliere, and my mother’s best friend.